A meadowlark snubs
the split rail fence, the crows’ cacophony,
and soars,
stretching its wings in weightless
ecstasy, its yellow throat
shrouded by the glaring light,
its song, still thought, about to thaw
the dawn––
and far below in leafy
camouflage, the hunter waits.
– Gloria Vando
She spent her adult days 
worrying about the inevitable:
earthquakes in L.A.,
stacking escape clothes
by her bedside in case
she had to make a run for it
in the middle of a dream,
or pursued by New York thugs
out to steal her innocence…
and variations on that theme.
In Mid-America where she
rejoiced from lack of stress,
her mind and limbs
relaxed enough to avoid
the muscle cramps she suffered
in L.A. and NYC. She forgot
about the bedside clothes
double locks, and being alert
and ready to avert disaster.
And so she was taken by
complete surprise when
in the middle of a placid dream,
a tornado lit down on the roof
of her house and whisked away
all her cares, leaving her
naked and alone in a field
where her house had stood,
in full view of the moon
shining overhead and
on both coasts simultaneously.
– Gloria Vando
God gave the white man clocks,
the Ghanaians time.
—Ghanaian saying
Was it the bluejays woke me
with their cawing and shrieking—or
was it the foxes barking at an owl?
Suddenly, loudly, I am awake,
bolt upright in bed. My husband,
snoring lightly beside me, doesn’t move
or turn as I go from room to room
shutting doors and drapes against intrusion,
trees still black against the paling grass,
descending sky. No doors out there
in the real world. On my own, I
wouldn’t know the twilight from
the dawn—could work or sleep around
the clock. Only time would tell
the difference—its tiny hands
inching their way across my life.
– Gloria Vando
